#two am

“Couldn’t sleep.”

He recognizes the nameless emotion in her eyes, the pale tremor on her face, the kind of faltering fear she would never afford herself during the day where there are deadlines to meet and bosses to appease and things to take care of and his heart clenches at the burden she carries, the battle she is facing. But battle isn’t the right word, because it was never a fair fight, to begin with.  Of all the blood and dust and gunfire he’s ever endured, this is the one battle he wishes he could do. He’d gladly be first in line it if it meant she didn’t have to.  Instinctively her forehead touches his shoulder, and he hears her inhale slow and deep like he’d taught her, eyelashes fluttering against his bare skin. He wants to be brave for her. When she cannot be. 

Smoothing a hand down her back, he thinks of all the nights she’s helped him get back to sleep, holding him, smoothing his hair after a nightmare, whispering against his overheated skin, taking the edge off the events of his past as they blurred together all messy, comforting him when she has so many demons of her own. If there is anyone that understands what it’s like not to be able to shut off your brain at night, she does. 

He also knows sometimes she doesn’t want to talk about it, and he knows better than anyone that inside the silence, more important things can be shared. The hum of the fridge kicks in and he stays like this, his nose buried in her hair, his hands seeping warmth into her ribs. For as long as she needs. Their breaths and the ticking clock are the only sounds for a while and then he feels the air shift around them. 

“Do you want some?” she asks, remembering the bowl of soggy cereal in her lap. She lifts her face, and he gently brushes her hair behind her ear. 

“I have a better idea,” he breathes. 

“Better than Cap’n Crunch?” her voice is warm now, teasing. He knows this because her cheek surrenders itself to a dimple, and the sight of it makes his heart sing. 

He presses his mouth to the divot in her left cheek, then moving feather-light down the side of her neck, eliciting an involuntary clench of her shoulder as goosebumps erupt down her arms. Her eyes crinkle at the sensation, and then the heat of his body is gone.

Opening the fridge, he pulls out the carton of milk. Setting a small pot on the stove, he pours milk and lights the gas underneath. In the darkness, he turns to the pantry, rooting through the top shelf. 

“What are you doing?” she asks softly.

Returning to the stove with a jar of honey and a small tin of cinnamon, he plucks a spoon from the dish rack on the other side of the sink. Sprinkling cinnamon into the milk, he measures two spoons of honey, stirring. “My grandma used to do this for me when I couldn’t sleep.” 

She watches him move around the kitchen, as if in slow motion, the way the angles of his back catch the soft moonlight, her eyes are drawn to the two matching dimples at the bottom of his spine. She watches him retrieve two mugs from the same dish rack, placing them on the counter next to the slowly heating concoction. He gives the pot another stir and then turns and leans on the counter, watching her. 

“The microwave would heat the milk faster, you know.” Her eyes linger on his collarbones, over the soft planes of his chest.

“Yeah,” he says lazily, his voice still thick with sleep, “but then I wouldn’t have time to do this.” 

Putting her bowl in the sink for her, he pries her legs loose from their crossed position. Carefully he lifts her hand, holding it in his grasp, brushing his thumb over her knuckles.  With eyes that want to take away every single sleepless night she ever has, he brings her warm fingers up to his cheek, splaying them open.  He feels her hand curl over his jaw, and he leans into her touch, curling his own hand over hers, keeping it there. His mouth finds her palm, pressing gently before letting his hands roam up her legs around her back. Pressing slow open-mouthed kisses along her neck, she fits inside his arms like their only purpose is to hold her together. To be brave for her.  When she cannot be.

The slope of his neck is the perfect spot for her mouth and she feels his pulse thumping in time with her heartbeat. She doesn’t know if it’s the warm drink in her stomach or the way she fits against the solid wall of his body, his arms snug around her hips, protective, possessive, but it’s impossible not to feel safe inside his arms. A yawn erupts, unexpected from her mouth and everything around her begins to melt away. He is nothing if not a hit of serotonin and he seems to know exactly what she needs. Their mugs are empty by the time he convinces her to come back to bed. He pulls her off the counter, holds her close and starts walking out of the kitchen. 

She is not one to be coddled like this, and at first, she protests but it’s weak even for her, and he scoffs softly, “Oh shut up,” using his mouth to abruptly silence any further complaints, leading her up the stairs, side by side, not letting go of her.

“Just don’t crack my head on the door frame.” 

“Oh?” He stops at the doorway of the bedroom and grins in the semi-darkness. “You didn’t seem to be complaining when I had you pinned against it yesterday.”

Once she’s settled in the middle of the bed, he slides in behind her, tucking his knees along the backs of her thighs, snaking an arm around her waist, eliciting another jaw-splitting yawn. Finally, he feels her weight sink against him, her body going limp, making sure she’s sound asleep before allowing himself to be pulled under too. 

~~

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